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Cameron was no more than a tentative shagger of pigs’-heads when first I devised my plan.

I rapidly discerned an essential fact: when one is blond, stout and gormless-looking, one might as well take advantage of such unprepossessing features. I thus resolved to be the amiable fool, in the realisation that few would suspect a conspicuous idiot of deviousness. So it was that suspension from an Olympian zipwire afforded the prerogative to plot evil.

Naturally lazy, I nonetheless worked hard at seeming nonchalant. I cultivated quirkish and sometimes contradictory opinions; a liberal with a fascist streak. I pretended conviction, while all the time caring about nothing except my own ascendancy.

I revel in rhetoric. Saying nothing whatsoever while sounding clever is the essence of successful politics. Throwing in the odd classical allusion, even if wildly misdirected, conveys a semblance of intellect and one arcane enough to deflect scrutiny. I have never had an original thought in my life, which explains my pliability as well as my otherwise unfathomable popularity. After all, flagrant moral flexibility is the keystone of opportunism.

I am rarely goaded into anger. When I speak frankly, I do so with the maximum of calculation and only the necessary minimum of truth. I am speaking now, however, because an unwarranted accusation has upset me.

I am not “an educated Donald Trump”. Since I do not care all that much about foreign relations, and because I feel a certain jouissance when destabilising the markets, I choose this moment to declare my opinion that Trump is a crock of sh*t. On the other hand, I see myself as more of a noisome receptacle, replete with curdling stools. It may be much the same thing, but my version sounds so much better.

The real issue, though, does not concern any perceived likeness to the President of the United States. I am reconciled, as he never will be, to the essentially faecal nature of my corporeal substance. Instead, I am deeply offended by the implication - imprecation, even - that I was educated. With due respect to Eton and Balliol, I was never educated. I was merely Unsuccessfully Polished.

But enough of this playful and scatalogical magniloquence. All that matters is that five million Daily Mail readers have my back. Soon I will seize Number Ten, and delight in my long-sought destiny as the Skidmark on the Porcelain of State. Post-Brexit anarchy will be my rapture, if never quite my responsibility. Most of its true perpetrators will after all be smelling funny and mumbling in care-homes long before they realise the consequences.

Did I inadvertently refer to the Mail? Apologies my dear Editor, of course I meant the Telegraph. You can print this if you like. I would naturally deny it, while all the time relishing the jape. You will never stifle me now. I am out of the bag, an irredeemable aberration in the national consciousness, the incorrigible prankster. My ego slides glistening, steaming and stinking out of the dog’s bottom of your subconscious.

Steady on old chap, you say? I can assure you that I have remained a veritable paragon of equilibrium throughout the current discourse. I was merely seeking to demonstrate what happens when rhetoric riots in reason’s absence. Whereas the Other Side of the Pond has done away with Truth altogether, we chaps and chapesses all know that that is not the British Way. The decent and proper way to deal with truth is to leave it pristine and intact under a ton of bullsh*t.

The problem when it comes to rhetoric, I’ve found, is it’s quite difficult to know how to bring it to a conclusion. I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to go for the big finish, so to speak. That’s why writing for the Telegraph is such a godsend. I’m just going to tiptoe away quietly, confident in the knowledge that I’ve reduced my readership to serene snoring, face down in their Fortnum and Mason’s muesli.

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Infinite Improbability Drive

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